Silvertip Mountain Bones withered thin

The grass was green, the day was warm, and the herds were returning. He'd known for a while, now, but the news was still making his heart soar. He felt like howling out his joy, rolling around in dirt, and mostly like eating. The thought of a big, bloody anything was making him drool - the last thing he'd eaten had been a leftover bit of his otter - dried gristle on bone. It was time to go on a serious hunt.

He trotted off with purpose, ignoring - at first - the stark white rock that he'd never really noticed before. He was almost upon it when he realized that rocks shouldn't be shivering, and a second glance made him think - Hey. They shouldn't be fuzzy, either.

And then common sense returned, and he approached the stark shewolf with a twitching nose, determining rather quickly that it was not Nitta, but the other one, the one he hadn't really met yet. Rita? Pico? Pitta?

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, approaching as loudly as he could. He didn't like the way she was coiled up - like a snake ready to strike. Something about this seemed very wrong to him.